


GENERATION X

by AndiiV



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Complete, Drama, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, POV Outsider, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-04-30 23:55:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5184494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndiiV/pseuds/AndiiV
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester walks into a bar... Stanford era. Outsider POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time Rick met Dean Osbourne was on a Thursday. It was the day before Halloween and Murphy’s bar was all but empty. Only four skinny kids in a corner booth saved the afternoon from being a complete bust but Rick had ID’d them before letting them at the beer. That was something he rarely needed to do since this particular joint tended to attract an older clientele. He hadn’t been surprised when they strolled in though, all shaggy hair, drainpipe jeans and black leather jackets. They reminded him of The Ramones when they were young. And skinny. They looked 18 but their IDs put them mid-20s, about the same age as Rick and who was he to argue with that? 

They’d arrived in town yesterday and started hitting up the drinking establishments, looking for work of a musical nature. Bumfuck was a small place, everybody knew each other’s business and the grapevine was of the finest vintage. The whole town knew they were there, it was only a matter of time before they tried their luck at Murphy’s. 

Rick was quick to point out the obvious; that there was no stage in the bar. No problem they said, they’d play in the corner. No PA? No problem, they had their own. No music licence? Who the hell checked shit like that anyway? 

Rick couldn’t make decisions like illegally booking bands but their look and persistence intrigued him so he asked what kind of music they played, expecting something in a punk vein. He was vaguely disappointed when the answer came back as stoner rock, “kinda like Alabama Thunderpussy meets Clutch”. Rick didn’t know those bands, didn’t know anything about stoner rock for that matter. He was mostly into classic rock but big enough to admit hair metal as a guilty pleasure… after a few beers.

Their band was called Waxing Gibbous and Rick nearly laughed out loud when he learned that. He kept it together long enough to assure them he’d have a word with the bar’s owner and to come back later. But they didn’t leave and an hour later they were still drinking, intent on nailing down the promise.

This job was destroying Rick’s brain. He could physically feel the cells dying off minute by minute. This was the slowest of afternoons and he tried to stay engaged by polishing glasses, wiping off the bar and replenishing the bowls of candy laid out there. Old man Murphy thought it a good idea to embrace Halloween this year, hoping to maximise trade and Rick didn’t have the heart to point out their average client was five times the age of your average trick or treater. So they’d carved some pumpkins and put orange candles on the tables. It made the place look more homey than usual but so far business remained slack.

A howl of laughter drew his attention to the kids in the corner and he studied them for a while. They didn’t just look like a gang they acted like one as well; all private jokes, crazy grins and male-bonded intimacy. Play punches, shoulder bumps and affectionate insults were the order of the day. These were the cool kids, the smokers, the one’s who’d broken out of the mainstream, flipped the bird to normality and chosen their own path through life. They’d taken back control and in the immortal words of Skynyrd were _free as a bird_. Rick envied that.

Sure he played a little guitar but Rick was no musician. He was, however, a major creative talent waiting to be discovered. It hadn’t happened yet, the university degree hadn’t exactly kicked things along in the way he’d hoped but he was confident it would happen. All he needed was one killer idea…

In the meantime he was back in his hometown of Bumfuck, working dreary shifts at a forty-something bar and resenting every moment of it. Hell, maybe he should work on his guitar playing and join a band, get out on the road and live a little. Anything was better than this…

He was still watching the kids who called themselves Waxing Gibbous when the throaty roar of an engine set all the windows in the joint vibrating. A sleek black car was pulling up out front and Rick came close to creaming his pants. He loved muscle cars, though he couldn’t afford to run one and this was a thing of complete beauty. It was an old Chevy, V8 for sure and he was going outside to ogle her good and proper before this day was done. 

A minute later the street door banged open to admit a tall, sturdily built guy. Waxing Gibbous turned to look at the newcomer and sized him up openly. Some people might have found that intimidating but not this dude. He stared right back at them.

“You got something to say?”

They turned back to their beer and he smirked. “That’s what I thought.” 

Rick was doing some appraising of his own. It seemed like this was the day for cool kids in leather, though this one actually _looked_ mid-20s. He was wearing a beat up brown coat, green Henley, work boots and jeans with holes in the knees. The fading and fraying suggested age and wear rather than any new-fangled fashion tragedy but Rick wasn’t judging. He didn’t come across like a musician though, something about the cropped, military style haircut perhaps. On the flipside he didn’t look much like a soldier either. Rick had become a pretty good judge of things like that over this past year. 

The recent wet weather had swollen the wood in the frame and now the street door wouldn’t close without a struggle. The dude made a couple of attempts then turned and put his whole shoulder into it. Rick was impressed by that; most customers didn’t have the manners to even try and it was usually left hanging open for one of the bar staff to remedy. 

As the dude shoved at the door Rick spotted something which made him tense up. This customer was packing for sure. Rick had always been observant and there was something off about the way that leather coat hung at the back. It was a free country though and it wasn’t illegal to bring guns into a bar. It might be illegal to book bands without the right kind of permit but Rick didn’t want to ponder the reverse logic of that one right now. 

The guy got the door closed and walked across the room. Swaggered was a better word for it, actually. He had a loping, bow-legged gait which reminded Rick of a gunslinger in a Wild West flick. Rick liked cowboy movies; he’d be willing to bet this guy liked them too. 

As he approached Rick noticed a few more things about him. He was limping slightly, favouring his right leg and there was bruising across his left cheek. Somebody had popped him pretty good and not long ago either. More noticeable was the short, ragged gash below his hairline. That was recent and whoever stitched him up had made one godawful job of it. They deserved to lose their medical license in Rick’s opinion. The dude grabbed a handful of candy from the nearest bowl and stuffed the whole lot into his mouth as he studied the line of beer pumps, frowning slightly. Rick noted his split, scuffed up knuckles and tried not to speculate on what that might mean.

“This foreign beer any good?”

He spoke round the mouthful of candy and Rick took a precautionary step backwards. He pasted on his professional smile.

“Sure, but I wouldn’t recommend Guinness on an empty stomach.”

“No chance of that.” The dude reached for the candy again. “This is better than trick or treat, you have to work for that shit.”

Rick followed his movements, waiting for the order.

“You’d like to try the Guinness?”

The dude shook his head. “I’ll take a Bud. Keep it patriotic, right?”

He definitely wasn’t local and Rick tied to place the accent as he poured the beer. There was a twang of something which might once have been Texas but he couldn’t pin it down. Maybe he travelled a lot, when he wasn’t fighting. Maybe he carried the piece because he fought a lot. Maybe he was an undercover cop or marshal but in a car like that? Not exactly incognito… The whole thing was massaging Rick’s curiosity but he wasn’t about to pry. There was protocol involved here. 

The dude surveyed the bar as he waited. His eyes lingered on Waxing Gibbous before moving to the pumpkins in the windows. He shot Rick a lop-sided grin.

“Think you’ll get many trick or treaters here?” 

Rick shook his head apologetically. “The owner’s idea. Don’t shoot the bar staff.”

The dude gave a low chuckle. “Hey, you know this is the first time in six hundred and sixty six years that Halloween falls on Friday the Thirteenth?”

Rick had to think about that one for a moment and when the penny dropped he laughed out loud. 

“You read that online?”

“Nope. That’s an honest to god Dean Osbourne original.”

Rick was still smiling as he took the dude’s bill and gave him the change.

“You’re not from round here.”

“Just passing through.” Dean Osbourne took a few gulps of beer and wiped foam from his upper lip. “Lot of travelling in my line of work, you know?”

“Sure.” Rick didn’t need to ask questions. Most drinkers, a few glasses in, told him everything about themselves whether he wanted to hear it or not. Mostly he just grinned and tried to bear it but this time he actually wanted the guy to spill.

“Cool ride you’ve got there. Chevy, right?”

Dean looked up from his beer, surprised. “67 Impala. You like vintage cars?”

“Damned straight, I do.” Rick whistled softly. “328 four barrel, I bet she goes like shit off a shovel. Why’d you pass on the SS though? It’s got better lines.”

Dean grinned and jerked a thumb towards the car. “Because you can fit a body in that trunk.”

Rick laughed. He liked this guy. He looked like trouble but he was funny, affable and he drove an absolute monster. He was considerate as well. 

“No offense, man but this place is like the grave. You mind if I put some music on?”

Rick shrugged. “It’s your money. Knock yourself out.”

Dean ambled over to the Wurlitzer which stood right next to the Waxing Gibbous booth. He took the longest time poring over the selection and when he returned it was to the strains of Led Zep’s _Ramble On_. Rick approved his choice whole heartedly. 

“Good choice. Two’s a classic.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “You think _Travelling Riverside Blues_ is better than this? It’s bugged me for years.”

“Nothing wrong in a tie, is there?”

“I guess not.” Dean turned his head as another burst of laughter came from the kids in the booth.

“What’s their deal? Juvy break out?”

Rick snorted. “Travelling band, hustling for work.”

“They been here long?”

“Blew in yesterday but I doubt they’ll stick around. This place isn’t exactly rock ‘n’ roll central.”

“I got that.” Dean took a contemplative sip of beer. “Not many young faces round here. What do you do for fun?”

Rick felt a sharp and reflexive jolt of resentment. This wasn’t the life he wanted but what he wanted was so far out of reach it might as well have been on Mars. “It’s a short term gig, pays the bills while I write my Oscar winning screenplay.”

“Yeah?” Dean seemed genuinely interested. “What’s it about?”

Rick gnawed at his lip. The truth was he had about a hundred ideas but couldn’t commit to any of them. “I’m working on a few concepts. I’m thinking maybe some kind of horror western thing.”

“Gun slinging Civil War zombies?” Dean banged the bar with his fist. “Hell, yeah. I’d go watch that.”

“You like horror flicks?”

“Not really.” Dean finished his beer in two gulps and pushed the glass over for a refill. “They get too much of it wrong.”

“Such as?”

Dean shrugged. “Devil’s in the detail, man. You don’t want to know.”

While Rick was pulling him a second beer the street door opened to admit two women. They were regulars, worked at Bumfuck Print a couple of doors down and signalled the advance party for the 5pm rush. They were both pushing forty but made the most of themselves and that fact wasn’t lost on Dean. He was eyeing them with as much appreciation as they were giving him. 

Rick watched their body language change as they approached; casual to flirtatious in the blink of an eye. The walks got slinkier, the lips got poutier and the volume of conversation increased exponentially, punctuated by giggles. Dean lounged against the bar, propped casually on one elbow and reached for the candy bowl.

“Trick or treat, ladies?”

His voice went about an octave deeper as he drawled out the line, full of suggestion and promise. They laughed and Dean kept them laughing while they bought drinks. He winked at Rick as he followed them to the seating area. “Three is _so_ not a crowd.”

Rick watched them settle into the booth behind Waxing Gibbous and now he was openly envious. He wasn’t the ugliest dude on the planet but even in his wildest dreams he could never match that guy’s style. He’d made his own efforts with those women over the months; epic fail every time. Dean Osbourne was smoother than velvet, all devilish charm and charisma. The outlaw vibe, the cuts and bruises, the peripheral whiff of danger were just icing on the cake. 

Rick tried to channel it. Dean was the most interesting thing to walk into Murphy’s Bar since he started working here. He could use a character like that in a story, if he could think of a story good enough to fit the character. Rick’s mind wandered, his erratic-at-best muse doing its usual number, ducking and weaving away just as he got close to nailing down a decent idea. But with trade picking up through happy hour he was too occupied to give it further thought. 

Dean came back later to buy more drinks and Rick noticed how he’d switched from draft to a lower proof bottled beer. The conversation at his booth was animated, a third female had joined the party but the bar was too noisy to hear what was going down. The women seemed to be eating him up though, and Dean seemed to be loving it.

At 6pm Waxing Gibbous made their move, three pitchers the worse for wear and looking pissed. They wanted to know if he’d spoken to the boss yet. Rick told them Murphy wasn’t in tonight and he wasn’t calling at this hour. They could try their luck again tomorrow. They accused him of scamming them to boost trade which was partly true, but Rick wasn’t about to admit it. He told them to tell their story walking and that’s exactly what they did. He had no idea if they’d come back but kind of hoped they wouldn’t. They were shitty drunks.

He got busy again and lost track of time. When he glanced at Dean’s booth again only the women occupied it, deflated and disappointed. When he looked out onto the street the Chevy was gone. 

Rick cursed. He’d never even gotten a good look at her.


	2. Chapter 2

The second time Rick met Dean Osbourne was Halloween. The day started off clear but early afternoon temperatures plummeted sharply. Following nearly a week of rain the result was thick mist which got denser as the afternoon progressed. By 4pm it was close to full-blown fog. 

Rick expected it to keep customers away but Murphy’s was busier than usual, given the hour. The spooky weather was perfect for Halloween, the afternoon dark enough to make the candles and glowing pumpkins in the windows look atmospheric and inviting. Maybe old man Murphy knew what he was doing after all…

The mood inside the bar was sombre though. The ten or so patrons were conversing softly in small groups and the Wurlitzer stood silent. Rick understood the reason. Last night two teenagers from the next town over had been killed in some kind of animal attack. Details were sketchy, limited to what the local paper printed that morning, but it was only twenty minutes from Bumfuck and the locals were shocked... 

Of course there were the inevitable opportunists, those who’d been quick to establish it was a full moon last night which therefore meant _werewolves_ were on the prowl. A Halloween party was hastily convened at a bar down the block and creatively titled _The Monster Mashup_. Inevitably, to Rick at least, Waxing Gibbous were the headline act. It all seemed pretty tasteless but the event was already sold out. Silver lining though: he wouldn’t have to see their skinny asses anymore.

He was skim reading the story again when the street door opened. He looked up from the newspaper and smiled when he saw Dean Osbourne approaching, brushing moisture from his clothes. He was wearing a brown Henley and heavyweight black jacket but his boots and jeans were the same ones as yesterday. The limp seemed more pronounced but Rick was mostly aware of how every female eye in the house tracked his movements. Clearly this guy’s appeal went beyond a leather jacket and cute pick-up lines. If Dean noticed the attention he didn’t acknowledge it, was probably used to it and Rick felt a sharp pang of envy.

“How’s it going?” Dean sounded tired. He pulled a bar stool over and sat down heavily. 

“Quiet.” Rick looked round the bar morosely. “Doubt it’ll pick up much tonight what with Halloween and… I guess you heard about the deaths?”

“Yeah.” Dean’s eyes glinted with something Rick couldn’t read. “Whoever did that’s gonna pay.”

Rick frowned. “ _Whatever_ did that. It was an animal attack; bear most likely.”

“My money’s on wolves.” Dean pulled a ten dollar bill from his pocket. “I’ll take a Corona.”

Rick uncapped the beer and slid it across. “You look like you need it.”

Dean rubbed his eyes and grimaced. “Didn’t get much shuteye last night.”

“You sure took off in a hurry; left a bunch of cougars hanging.”

“Something came up.” Dean spoke with the indifference of the physically blessed. “Those Jibber kids ever come back?”

It took Rick a moment to realise what he meant. “Waxing Gibbous? They got themselves a gig at a party down the block.”

“I heard. Figure I’ll go check ‘em out later.”

Rick raised an eyebrow. “You like stoner rock?” 

Dean shrugged. “I’ll try anything once.”

Rick watched him take a gulp of beer. He seemed distracted. “How long you in town?”

Dean traced lines in the condensation on his bottle. It took him so long to respond Rick wasn’t sure he’d heard the question. 

“Should have things wrapped up by tomorrow.”

He spoke quietly, like he was talking to himself. It went against Rick’s better judgement but he was about to ask exactly what brought him to Bumfuck when Dean's cell phone rang. The tinny, hard-rock ringtone made Rick smile but it faded quickly when Dean pulled the device from his pocket. The screen was smashed to hell, the whole rig so banged up it was a miracle it still worked. Dean squinted at the caller ID then jammed it to his ear in a hurry.

“Hey d…”

The bar was quiet enough that Rick could hear a gruff voice cut him short. His ears weren't good enough to get the other end of the conversation though. Dean pivoted on his stool, put his back to Rick and dropped his voice. He sounded agitated. 

“You think I don’t know that? They gave me the slip last night after…”

He listened for a moment then sat bolt upright. “No, sir; it’s not an excuse.”

Tension rippled across Dean’s back and Rick strained his ears. Still couldn’t hear a damned thing. 

“…It’s a three day drive.” Dean sounded incredulous. “No friggin’ way you’ll make it in time. I figure…”

Whoever was on the other end of the line seemed intent on preventing him from finishing a sentence and Dean’s fingers drummed impatiently against his thigh as he waited to get a word in.

“I _know_ what I’m up against. I’ve got it covered…”

Rick could sense frustration coming off him in waves. “… Or maybe you could trust me for once in your life? Bobby’s in Indiana, I’ll call him if…”

Dean’s grip on the handset tightened. His other hand clenched into a fist. “Yes, sir, I understand. I’ll meet you in…”

Dean exhaled as he closed the handset and dropped it into his pocket. It was a long, controlled breath, the sound of somebody trying to keep his shit together. 

“Son of a bitch.”

He sat for a moment, head bowed and shoulders slumped before turning back to the bar. He finished his beer in two long drafts and signaled for another. 

Rick eyed him curiously as he reached for the bottle. “That your CO?”

“Worse.” Dean threw him a lopsided grin. “My dad.”

Rick tried to keep the surprise off his face, wasn’t sure he’d succeeded. “Hard taskmaster, huh?”

“He’s got his reasons.” Dean took the fresh bottle and picked at the label, deep in thought. Finally he looked up. “You got family?”

Rick nodded. “Mother, father, sister all within two miles of this bar.”

“That must be nice.” Dean took a sip of beer. “My brother’s in California. I haven’t seen him in a while.”

Rick raised an eyebrow. “Falling out?”

“Hell no.” Dean looked mildly affronted, like Rick had just made a questionable joke. “Sammy’s making a name for himself at Stanford.”

“Smart dude, huh?”

Dean grinned and his whole face lit up. “The smartest.”

“What about you? You go to college?”

Dean snorted. “I’m not smart. Besides, someone needs to work the family business.”

Rick paused, debating whether to ask his next question before throwing caution to the wind. 

“What kind of business you in?”

Dean shook his head. “Nothing you’d want to hear about.”

“Really? My family owns a scrapyard. _There’s_ a conversation killer.”

“No that’s good, man, that’s normal.” Dean sounded sincere. “I’ve got this uncle owns a scrapyard in South Dakota. Best times I remember as a kid was running wild in that place.”

Rick laughed. “Tell me about it. I’m this well-adjusted cause I took all my anger issues out on those junkers.”

“I preferred fixing ‘em up.” Dean sounded wistful now. “Working on engines is like the best kind of jigsaw puzzle. It never gets old.”

Rick didn’t have much affinity for mechanics. He was more of a creative guy but he understood the sentiment. “That Chevy of yours must be high maintenance?”

“I treat her right, she treats me right. Working on Baby’s a privilege.”

Interesting he’d given the car a name. Just as Rick was filing that away in his mental dossier of Dean Osbourne facts the street door banged open with enough force to hit the wall. Waxing Gibbous swaggered through and left it hanging open. Rick cursed. 

“Here comes trouble.”

Dean turned to look. “Not this early.” 

He sounded dismissive but he’d gone tense as a coiled spring.

Waxing Gibbous approached the bar and Rick blinked a couple of times. Maybe it was a trick of the light, the flicker of candles or tendrils of fog which followed them into the room but he could swear they’d all put on a few pounds since yesterday. Gone were the wasted physiques and sallow studio tans; now they looked like poster kids for country living.

Dean was staring at them. “You leave your manners in the nursery? Close the friggin’ door.”

The tallest kid puffed himself up. “You gonna make us?”

Dean smiled and the menace it contained sent a chill up Rick’s spine. “I’ve _already_ made you, Ginger Snaps.”

That seemed to give the speaker pause and he eyed his bandmates warily.

“You think this is the dipshit from last night?”

Another one of them piped up. “Sure smells like him.”

Dean was off his stool like a bullet. He grabbed the tall kid by the hair and collar then smacked his head off the top of the bar. Rick winced as he felt the impact shudder through the wood. The kid grunted and squirmed and Dean backed off slowly, hands held wide in supplication though his eyes were flashing with danger. 

“Full moon always makes me clumsy. No hard feelings, huh?”

“You’re a fucking asshole.” The kid moved closer to his buddies and they gathered together. “Think you can take us all?”

Dean stood his ground and sneered at them. “Come and get some, White Fang.” 

His hands were behind him now, hovering near the waistband of his jeans and with a shock Rick remembered how he’d been packing yesterday. He hurried round the bar, put himself between the two factions and addressed Waxing Gibbous in what he hoped was an assertive tone.

“Time to move on, fellers. I know for a fact you’ve got someplace better to be tonight.”

The tall kid sniggered. “You got that right, cue ball. We’ve got you to thank for never having to play this shithole.”

Rick smarted. He didn’t give a fuck about the bar but early hair loss was a family legacy he didn’t need reminding of. Not by a stick insect like this. 

“I’m sure you didn’t come down here just to insult me. Be sure and close the door on your way out.”

The kid’s eyes slid across to Dean. “Or you’ll sic your dog on us?”

Dean smirked and cracked his knuckles. “Pedigree wolfhound, smartass.”

Rick felt rattled. There was something going down here which he didn’t understand and was pretty sure he didn’t want to. This level of animosity went deeper than a spontaneous disagreement in a bar, and Rick had seen enough of those to know. There was a threat hanging in the air which was so tangible the hairs on his arms stood on end. He felt exposed, vulnerable and some primal instinct was urging him to go join the other drinkers, seek safety in numbers. Instead he retreated behind the bar and reached for the shotgun Murphy kept there. 

“Hit the road now or I’m calling the cops.”

“Screw you, grandpa.” Rick didn’t see which one of them said it but it proved to be their parting shot. They slouched out of the bar and Dean shoved the door closed, almost catching the fingers of the last one through. Rick glanced at the bar’s other patrons; their expressions ranged from shock, astonishment and fear to open disbelief. But there was more below the surface; he could sense respect and envy from the men, admiration and desire from the women. It was all focussed on Dean, strolling towards the bar like he’d just spent a day at the beach. 

Rick’s heart was hammering. He’d gotten a whiff of something he could comprehend only at the basest, most intuitive level. He was having trouble processing exactly what just scared the shit out of him since there was no rational explanation for it. And there was Dean, cool as a friggin’ cucumber and acting like it was an everyday occurrence. The same subconscious sense which had been urging Rick to turn tail and run not thirty seconds ago was also damned glad somebody like him had been present. 

_Protecting the herd._

Rick forced the notion from his head. It was just a bar fight, nothing more. Dean settled back on his stool and shook his head. 

“Kids these days, I tell you…”

Rick eyed him cautiously. “You still going to see them play?”

Dean took a pull on his beer. “Depends.”

“On what?”

Dean grinned and winked. “On whether you’ve got any eggs out back.”

They both laughed and it broke some of the tension. This was the guy Rick could relate to; an amiable joker who probably hadn’t been about to shoot four kids in the middle of a bar. 

_He was protecting us…_

Once again Rick pushed away the unwelcome and inexplicable thought. Dean glanced towards the corner of the bar and Rick noted how some of the women tried to make eye contact with him. 

“You having some kind of wake here?”

Rick frowned, not following. “Wake?”

“You know, for those kids who died?”

Rick shrugged. “Why would we? Nobody here knew ‘em.”

“Okay then.” 

Dean thumped his fist on the bar and headed for the Wurlitzer. Seconds later the opening bars of Creedence’s _Bad Moon Rising_ filled the room. He returned with a grin on his face and raised his bottle in salute. 

“Bloody Halloween, man.”

Whatever kind of joke he was trying to make, Rick didn’t want to hear it.


	3. Chapter 3

The final time Rick met Dean Osbourne was twenty minutes past midnight on November first. He’d just locked the street door on the last customer, a middle aged banker who’d not only lingered over his final beer, but also managed to leave his cell phone behind. To say Rick was pissed was an understatement. He was scheduled to finish at eight but another employee crying off sick meant he’d pulled a double shift. Unable to shake the unease he’d felt when Dean and the Gibbous kids faced off earlier, he’d consequently been irritable and jittery all night. To cap it all, he’d been saddled with the task of closing up when all he wanted to do was go home, grab a brew and try to relax. 

He flipped off the overhead lights and took a moment to appreciate the ambience of the room, lit only by candles and the beer pumps on the bar. He was reaching down to unplug the Wurlitzer when a sharp rap on the street door made him nearly jump out of his skin. He turned, cursing, expecting to find the drunk banker and was surprised to see Dean Osbourne outside. He’d left the bar around five thirty in good shape but even at a distance, it was clear something very bad had gone down since then. Dean was way too pale, livid bruising mottled the left side of his face and his nose was bleeding. As he hurried to unlock the door, Rick was thinking he’d most likely been jumped. He had a pretty good idea who was responsible… 

Dean practically fell into the room but when Rick reached out to steady him he flinched and pulled away, clamping his left arm across his ribs. With a shock, Rick noticed blood dripping from his hand and dark, wet patches glistening on his coat. The left sleeve and back of the garment was all ripped to hell.

“Jesus Christ, what happened to you?”

“I’m good, just need to sit for a minute. Do you mind?” 

Dean’s voice was rough as gravel and he was wheezing like an old man. Rick tried to steer him to a nearby table but Dean wove an unsteady path to the far corner, well away from the windows. Rick began following, ready to help if necessary but paused when it occurred to him whoever did this might be nearby. He glanced nervously into the street, still foggy but nowhere near as bad as earlier in the day. It all looked calm but he was taking no chances. He double locked and bolted the street door for good measure. 

He found Dean collapsed in a chair and reached for his cell phone. 

“I’m calling the cops and medics. Do I tell ‘em you’ve been shot? Stabbed?

Dean’s right hand whipped out and grabbed his wrist with surprising strength.

“No medics and definitely no cops. Just give me a minute, okay?”

Rick shook his head. “No way. You’re not bleeding out in my bar.”

Dean blinked a few times, like he was having trouble processing the words. 

“Maybe you could find something to slow it down a little?”

Rick hesitated, staring at the phone in his hand and debating whether he should just punch 911 and call the professionals.

“Please, man. No cop’s gonna believe what happened.” 

It was the desperation in Dean’s voice which made Rick pocket the phone and head to the storeroom for some towels. On the way back he grabbed a bottle of whisky and two glasses from the bar. He’d only been gone a minute but Dean was slumped further in the chair. It looked like he’d passed out but Rick could see candle light reflecting in his eyes. He uncapped the bottle and poured double shots for them both. 

“It’s the only medicine we keep here.”

Dean might have smiled but the state of his face turned it into a grimace. 

“It’s the only kind I like.”

He drained the glass in two gulps and set it back on the table, his hand shaking like a leaf in a storm. Rick followed his lead in an attempt to calm his shattered nerves, watching anxiously as Dean tried to get his coat off. He was unsuccessful, mainly because his left arm didn’t seem to be working and the effort turned his face chalk white. He cursed, gritted his teeth and got ready to try again.

Rick moved closer. “You need help with that?

Dean grunted his consent. “Go easy, huh? My shoulder’s dislocated.”

Rick stared at him, open mouthed. He’d dislocated his wrist while skateboarding a few years back and still remembered the pain. It had been excruciating. 

“That’s not going to pop itself back.”

Dean nodded morosely. “You know any first aid?”

I took Rick a moment to realise he wasn’t joking. “That needs more than first aid. Why don’t you let me call the medics?”

Dean’s response was to renew his struggle with the coat. Rick hurried to assist and his stomach rolled ominously when they finally got it off. The Henley was shredded and soaked with blood. Beneath were long, ragged gashes which started at Dean’s upper arm and ran down his back and shoulder. Rick watched him reach for a towel and press it tentatively to his arm. Blood began spotting it immediately.

“What the hell did that to you, man?”

Dean shot him that half smile, half grimace again. “You don’t want to know.”

Rick was fairly certain where to point the finger, despite Dean’s evasive manoeuvres.

“If those Gibbous kids were involved then the cops need to know before...”

“They’re not around anymore.” Dean sounded amused. 

“They left town?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Rick was about to pursue it when the sound of sirens pulled his attention towards the street. Two police cars howled past the bar, flashing lights diffused by the mist. An ambulance followed twenty seconds later, burning some serious rubber. Whatever was happening downtown, Rick was glad he wasn’t part of it. Or maybe he was closer to it then he cared to admit…

Dean was fumbling in the pocket of his ruined coat. He found his beat-up cell phone, flipped it open and squinted at the display. He rubbed his eyes, shook his head then squinted again, like he was having trouble focussing. That was definitely not a good sign.

“You want me to call someone for you?”

“Huh?” Dean glanced up, didn’t seem to recognise Rick for a moment. 

“Someone who can maybe come pick you up?”

“Yeah…” Dean stared blankly at the phone for a good half minute before visibly pulling his shit together. 

“Bobby Singer. He’s my uh… uncle. Driving in from Indiana to help with, uh…”

His words were slurred and Rick squatted in front of him, right in his field of vision for whatever that was worth.

“Listen to me, you pass out and I’m calling 911. You understand?”

Dean didn’t respond. Rick needed to keep him talking, keep him engaged.

“What’s your name, man? You remember your name?”

“Sure I do.” He seemed mildly affronted. “Dean Winchester. Like a badass fuckin’ rifle.”

Rick frowned. “Osbourne. Your name’s Dean Osbourne.”

Dean snorted. “That was for Ozzy. Everyone needs a little Sabbath in their lives, right? Last time I was Dean Simmons and one time I was Dean Van Halen. No-one ever called me on it, not even once.”

He chuckled. He might be talking garbage but at least he wasn’t slurring anymore. Rick took the phone from his hand and scrolled through the contacts. 

“Bobby Singer, right?”

Dean helped himself to another glass of whisky, spilled half of it on the table. “He’s terrific at first aid.”

Rick found the name and punched dial. The call was picked up on the first ring.

“Where the hell you at, boy? You ever heard of answering your goddamned phone?”

The voice contained irritation and concern in roughly equal measures. This didn’t sound like the kind of customer you’d want to screw with and Rick swallowed hard. 

“It’s not Dean, but…”

“How the hell did you get that phone?” The voice dropped in register and now all it contained was menace. 

“Dean asked me to call because…”

“Where is he?” The concern was back but it was mostly masked by the threat of actual bodily harm.

“He’s right here, but…”

“Put him on the line.”

Rick glanced at Dean, watching with a faint smile pulling at his lips. He held out his hand and Rick passed him the cell.

“Hey Bobby...”

He grimaced and held the handset away as the man called Bobby delivered a tirade in a tone which could curdle milk. Rick couldn’t hear the words, but the sentiment came through loud and clear. On the upside, Dean seemed properly alert now.

Eventually he put the phone back to his ear and wedged it in place with his right shoulder. “I told you I’d take care of it. I swear you sound just like Dad sometimes.”

He sounded pissed and scowled as he reached for his glass. “They were fucking _turning_. If I’d waited for you a whole bar full of people would have been wolf chow.”

He sipped whisky while he listened. The expression on his face didn’t change. 

“… then maybe you shouldn’t have gotten side tracked to Indiana by a friggin’ ghost. Werewolf trumps poltergeist, _you_ taught me that.”

He seemed to have forgotten Rick was standing there. He also seemed unaware how crazy he sounded, discussing non-existent supernatural entities like they were the real deal. Rick could overlook that though; he’d lost a lot of blood and was more than likely delirious. Bobby, on the other hand, had seemed entirely compos mentis…

“Listen man, you still got that med kit?”

Dean was trying so hard to sound cool even Rick could hear it. He peeled the soggy towel from his arm, gazed at it balefully then tossed it to the floor.

“…One of the bastards got its claws in, scratched me up some.”

He pulled a clean towel from the pile and pressed it back in place. With some relief, Rick saw the bleeding was slowing.

“… regular shit; dislocated shoulder, maybe a concussion...”

Rick gawped at him. If Dean considered this level of injury to be normal, he’d sure hate to witness something serious.

“… Yeah, same town… Some bar called Murphy’s on Redmond Drive. There’s a bunch of pumpkins in the windows, you can’t miss it…. Thirty minutes… Sure.”

Dean snapped the phone closed, threw it on the table and let out a long breath.

“Cavalry’s coming.”

Rick was glad to hear it but until the cavalry actually got here, Dean was his responsibility. His main priority was to keep him conscious so he sat in the chair opposite and poured himself another glass. 

“You going to pretend I didn’t hear that thing about werewolves?”

“I’ll play it anyway you want, man.”

Rick felt a pang of irritation. “You don’t think you owe me some kind of explanation?”

Dean shrugged then winced. “You’ll think I’m nuts.”

“You’re nuts? Who was it let a bleeding, beat up stranger into their boss’s bar after closing?”

Dean considered for a moment then appeared to reach a decision. “You felt something earlier, right? When those Jibber kids acted up?”

Rick was unnerved by the fact he’d even noticed. “I felt kind of threatened; still can’t figure out why...”

“They had your scent and your lizard brain knew it. “Dean tapped the back of his head. “It’s primal, man. It recognises the shit four thousand years of civilising ourselves programmed out.”

Unease pricked up Rick’s spine and the temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees.

“What do you mean they had my scent?”

“Waxing Gibbous. The clue was their name but it took me a week to figure it out.” Dean chewed at his lip and smiled ruefully. “Sam would have got it in a second…

“They were werewolves; turn on the full moon and what better cover than a travelling band? They move round a lot, never spend any time in one place and nobody questions it.”

“Werewolves? Seriously?”

Rick tried to convince himself he was listening to the words of a madman until he remembered tonight was the final night of the full moon cycle. Then he remembered what happened in the neighbouring town yesterday. He broke out in goose bumps and his hands began to shake. 

Dean’s eyes glittered over the rim of his glass. “What’s your lizard brain telling you?”

Rick reached for his own glass, downed it in one and immediately poured another.

“So if werewolves are out there, does it mean…”

He couldn’t bring himself to continue. It sounded utterly insane. Dean’s expression was inscrutable.

“It’s all real. Ghosts, shifters, wendigos, ghouls… All that stuff you read about; the folklore, myths and legends, even the freaky stories in high school, where do you think it all comes from?”

Rick was having trouble processing what he was hearing. His rational brain was in meltdown, screaming at him to not get suckered by a lunatic. His lizard brain was calmly enquiring why the hell he hadn’t realised any of this before. Dean was still watching him, contemplative now.

“Look man, my family hunts things that go bump in the night, and we put them down. It’s just me and Dad since Sammy bailed for Stanford but...”

Rick’s stomach clenched up as the penny dropped. “Those Gibbous kids. You what, you _killed_ them?”

Dean reached into the back of his pants, moving slow and careful. He placed a semi-automatic pistol onto the table and Rick smelled cordite. It had been recently fired.

“Solid silver rounds. I took out three of ‘em clean but the last one gave me some trouble.”

Rick raised an eyebrow. “You took them on alone? You got some kind of death wish?”

Dean smiled sheepishly. “That’s what Bobby said.”

Rick recalled the convoy of emergency vehicles cars racing into town. “I’m guessing you left a mess backstage?”

“Nothing compared to the mess out front if those dogs had gotten loose.”

“Will the cops come after you?”

“Only if you call them...”

Rick thought about it for all of a second. “Don’t you feel bad about killing? I mean, it says in the Bible…”

“Bible my ass.” Dean snorted contemptuously. “My mom got killed by something bad when I was four. Dad raised me and Sam to fight evil and that’s all I know how to do. I don’t question the ethics, man. Saving people, hunting things… it’s the family business.” 

He took a gulp of whisky. “You think I’m crazy, right?”

Rick knew he _should_ be thinking that but everything Dean was telling him resonated on a subliminal level he just couldn’t argue with.

“I guess my lizard brain thinks otherwise.”

Dean grinned. “Alright then.”

Rick kept him talking for another thirty minutes. Dean had plenty more to offer about his family, the supernatural and the kind of world they all operated in. Rick fluctuated between being scared shitless and utterly spellbound. It was surreal, outlandish, thrilling and incredible in equal measures. He was certain he’d wake up tomorrow morning and put this whole episode down to some kind of acid dream, but right now he couldn’t get enough of it.

He was almost disappointed when the surly, grizzled, baseball-hatted Bobby Singer showed up. He popped Dean’s shoulder back into place, examined his wounds with military efficiency and told him to gear up for a butt load of stitches. Dean didn’t seem fazed by any of it. Incredibly, he also managed to get to his feet and leave the bar under his own power.

Before he went he shook Rick’s hand and thanked him for his time and concern. He left twenty dollars for the booze; he also left a cell number. He assured Rick the town of Toledo was currently clean but if were ever to catch scent of something weird, he needed to drop the dime. After that he got into Bobby’s beat up truck and it vanished into the mist.

Rick cleaned up the blood from the bar floor, gathered the towels and took them home. He put them in his apartment building’s incinerator. It was 1.30 by the time he got indoors but he was way too wired to sleep. He considered calling the cops and reporting the night’s events, because that’s what normal people did. His rational brain reminded him he’d just burned evidence and harboured a killer; his lizard brain gibbered about full moons, age-old predators and how people like Dean Osbourne were necessary to maintain balance. 

So he didn’t call the cops. He went through to the back room and turned on his computer. He spent twenty minutes scouring local news sites but little had been reported so far. There had been an incident at Ronson’s Music Bar, the whole block was cordoned off and police were investigating. Watch that space…

Rick shut down the browser, opened the word processor and drummed his fingers gently on the keyboard. 

This evening had been game changing. He felt energised, inspired and it was all down to a cool, crazy customer named Dean Osbourne. Or was it Winchester? That dude had casually handed Rick the thing he’d been seeking for years; a compelling, original idea. Who cared if nobody believed it; it was a work of fiction, right? Rick knew what lurked in the shadows now; Dean and his family were out there protecting the innocent, the blissfully ignorant and for that he was profoundly thankful.

He fetched a bottle of beer from the kitchen and uncapped it. He had no clue where this thing might go, but his muse was champing at the bit. His lizard brain promised him his bar tending days were numbered and Rick had become inclined to trust what it said. 

He took a contemplative sip of beer and typed out the header page.

SUPERNATURAL  
BY ERIC KRIPKE


End file.
